His Nightmare
by Auriela
Summary: They have taken the innocent men of the Holy Land's battlefields, his five precious men, Marian...He is not sure how much more aching distress his subconscious can inflict. [Companion piece to Her Nightmare]


His feet, dragging along in the orange sand, are sore beyond comprehension. He knows he has been walking for longer than he can remember. The hot sun beats down on his exposed neck and he wishes for water, shade, death; anything to escape this inescapable pain. He knows he is on the verge of collapse when his ears prick at a sudden noise. Yells. Coming from the sand dune to his left. With a sudden burst of energy he was unaware existed, he runs, sweat dripping down his forehead into the collar of his rough shirt, up and over the coarse sand. The sight that appears before his makes him wish he had collapsed a good fifty yards back.

Dead bodies. They are scattered across the sand in the irregular pattern that spells tragedy. There is not a single movement; all are dead. The orange sand is stained red with blood. He does not think he has ever seen so much blood in all his life. The smell of death makes him choke, and even though he clenches his eyes shut he cannot rid himself of the image of dead Saracens and Englishmen, lying unseeing under the merciless, sweltering sun.

There is a loud war cry and he turns to look behind him, where, on a distant sand dune, there is a Saracen army raising their swords for revenge.

'Master!' calls a man to his left, a man he is certain he knows but cannot place. The man's voice, desperate with fear, echoes across the plain. 'Your sword, milord! You must fight! For the King!'

He is handed a heavy blade, so heavy he can barely lift it, let alone kill the men making up the army looming ever closer, and he tries to tell his manservant – for that is who that man is, is he not? – to say he has been lost and walking aimlessly for days, that he has not the energy to fight an army of this size, that he needs water and food and rest, that vicious killing is not the way to resolve things (this he knows too well now, after years of waging a most unholy war) but his mouth cannot move and when he looks again for the man once beside him he is no longer there.

He waits for other soldiers to appear, but no one comes. The army are so close he can see particular details of their faces – a scar on the cheek of one, a dented nose of another's – and he knows that he is to fight this alone.

He is going to die.

-

His head is aching as he looks around from where he is sitting, legs crossed, on a patch of damp, leafy earth. The tall green trees surrounding him are holding birds on their wide branches that are singing gleefully. The weak sunlight dances spots of gold on the soil with the slight breeze rustling the tree leaves. He stands unsteadily and walks towards the cave in front of him, unsure of his purpose but for the demands of his rumbling stomach, becoming more evident as he sniffs something like rabbit stew. He strides quickly into the cave and again, moves to speak, to shout a greeting, his name – if only he could remember it – but his mouth cannot move. Wary now, he walks deeper into the cave, careful to be silent, but a noise outside makes him abruptly change his mind. He creeps back towards the entrance, a numb fear seeping into his bones.

'Gotcha!' a triumphant growl announces, and he struggles out of the soldier's tight grasp, still not able to cry out.

'What have we here?' He is turned by strong arms to his left and sees a short, bald man smirking at him. Besides this man, he observes, there are another five men, tied up and alternatively glaring at the smirking man and desperately watching him to miraculously save them from this disastrous situation.

'A nice dinner party?' one of the tied men suggests. The sheer gall makes him smile, an action that feels unfamiliar.

The bald man rolls his eyes. 'A clue: no.'

'I'm not being funny, but I do think that we've got ourselves into a problematic position here,' the same tied man says. He is immediately given a shove by the giant of a man standing next to him, and protests loudly.

The sneering man is rolling his eyes. He barks, 'Bind him!' to the solider, and then faces the five others crossly. 'Will you all shut up?'

He feels thick rope being wrapped around his wrists, digging into the flesh. He will not wince in front of his men – for they are his men, are they not? If they weren't they would not be looking to him and the man fastening the rope so frantically, their eyes betraying their fear – and instead stands a little taller as the now-glaring man orders the soldier to return to his side.

'It is time to say goodbye, Sir! Any last words to your men?' The man's leer has returned as he turns back to watch him. He opens his mouth to reassure his men, to let them know that there must be some way they can get out of this together, leaving all unscathed but for the bald man and his soldier, but the words dry up in his mouth. He simply looks at each of them, the giant, the teasing man, the Saracen, the dark-haired youth, and the last he recognises as his manservant who had disappeared in a time and a place he cannot quite recall.

'What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?' The man waits for a second longer, but it is impossible for him to make any sound. 'Very well, then. Have it your way.' He nods sharply to the soldier, and, with a fatal, swift swoop his sword has cut through all five men. They do not even have the time to cry out before they lie crumpled on the forest floor, their eyes dead.

Tears spring to his eyes and he tries with all his might to cry out, move the tight bonds off his wrists, but he cannot. He looks up, desperation written plainly across his face as the man opposite begins to laugh.

'Oh, dear. We are in a bit of a pickle.' He stops his laughter suddenly and raises his eyebrows to the soldier. 'Kill him.'

And as the soldier turns around, his pale blue eyes menacing, he knows that there is no way out. He is going to die.

-

The house is quiet. Too quiet. He has been here before; he is sure of it, but only ever when it was a bustling, happy place. The house he is walking through now is deprived of the laughter he is used to creaking through the walls, the smells of baking from the large kitchen, the muffled noises of people walking about upstairs.

He is moved to climb the stairs, and rests his hand on the well-worn banister, savouring the soft, smooth wood on his calloused hands. He hears a noise, and, now walking with a purpose, climbs the stairs to the room at the end of the corridor.

He steps just inside the doorway, and can see a woman gazing out the window, twisting a ring absentmindedly on her finger. His breath hitches in his throat, as his mind struggles to remember why she is so familiar, why his heart feels too full with affection and anxiety when he sees her, why she is here.

The floorboards squeak underneath him and her head turns. She is so beautiful.

'Oh, it is you.' Her voice is devoid of warmth. 'I told you I didn't want you to come here anymore.' He steps further forward but she turns her whole body to face him. Her blue eyes, such a contrast to her dark curls, are flashing in anger. 'We are going our different ways. It is time for us both to grow up.' As he still says nothing, she gets impatient. 'We are not children anymore. I may have loved you once but I do not love you now. It is not possible for us to be together, no matter how many times you say you can get me out of this marriage. Perhaps I do not want to get out of this marriage. Have you ever thought of that?' Her eyes lose their fierce intensity and she says softly. 'I am bound to my word, as you are yours.'

He knows she is talking about his journey, from which neither of them believed he would return. He wants to speak, but she is too quick for him.

'Yes, I am speaking of the Holy Land. You chose the way you wanted to go – _you_ left _me_, remember? For glory and for the King. While the real battle was being waged here.' She rolls her eyes. 'Some hero.'

He wants to protest, to tell her that he's here now, that he's trying to mend his wrongs, that it was a mistake, leaving her, that it's the only thing he regrets more than anything else, but he cannot tear his eyes away from her face, battling with so many emotions.

'No matter what you say, I am still going to marry him. I will never marry you. I despise what you have become.' Her face has become impassive, and every word feels like a blow. 'You say that you only care for the poor, but even you, the great outlaw that will save us all, have an ulterior motive. Has it ever not been for glory? Everything that you have ever done?'

He wants to leave, to get her words out of his head, but he knows she speaks the truth.

'I thought I made it clear the last time you visited, but obviously not. So here's the truth.' Her eyes are flashing but he cannot mistake it for passionate love, as he knows he has done before. There is only hate he sees; she stares at him steadily, her furious resolve never wavering. He can feel a burning sensation at the back of his eyes, knows that the tears are going to come. 'I love another. I am marrying another. I do not love you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you, Robin. Robin. Robin. Robin. Robin.'

-

'Robin? Robin, please answer me. Robin?'

He brings a shaky hand up to his eyes, feels the tears wetting the corners of his eyes. He cannot bring himself to open his eyes, to face the next nightmare – they have taken the innocent men of the Holy Land's battlefields, his five precious men, Marian…He is not sure how much more aching distress his subconscious can inflict. He can feel his lower lip trembling.

'Robin? Oh, Robin, please…'

A soft hand covers his, and he feels his hair being brushed back from his forehead. He knows he is clammy from fear, but the tender stroking of his hair relaxes his muscles and he gathers enough strength to open his eyes and pull his hand from over his face.

Marian's eyes are creased with concern. There is one dark curl escaping from her braid, falling across her forehead, but she ignores it, her gaze focused solely on him. She smiles with relief when she sees his eyes open once more. She cups his cheek in her hand and cries, 'He is awake.'

Djaq is the first to arrive over Marian's shoulder, her dark eyes relieved. The rest of the gang crowd round, glad to see their leader returned from the horrors of sleep. Robin catches Much's eye and the look his former servant gives him conveys the depth of understanding about his nightmare.

'Had us all there, Robin,' Allan says, grinning happily. 'Thought you were having a fit.'

'You wouldn't wake up,' Will says quietly. Robin suspects he is more rattled than he lets on.

Djaq smiles reassuringly at him and makes to move the others away. 'Let him breathe,' she commands, and they go back to sit by the fire, the first rays of sunlight peeking through the thick canopy of leaves.

Robin looks back at Marian. Her eyes are already back on his, her hand still gently smoothing the consternation away from his forehead. 'Are you alright?' she asks.

Robin reaches up his other hand to clasp hers tightly, to let her know that he is glad she is here. 'You should not be here, Marian. You should be with your father.'

She smiles sadly. 'Little John came to get me. The others were very concerned. You would not respond to them, no matter what they did. Djaq could not understand why she could not rouse you.'

'And so they went to get you.' He closes his eyes again, smiling at the knowledge that Marian, the one he loves, is the only one that can help him escape from his nightmare.

'Robin?' He opens his eyes again. 'What was the matter?'

He shakes his head, his eyes locked on the patch of blue between leaves high above his head. They are getting themselves into unfamiliar territory here, and Robin is not sure he wants her to understand what he has seen in his past, the sheer terror he felt at losing his men, at losing her…'It was a nightmare. That is all.'

She raises an eyebrow at him and he knows she will not let him off so easily. This is Marian, after all, the same headstrong, brilliant, happy girl who had chased him across meadows with squealing laughter when they were children. Marian, who had not married the entire time he was away, and remained strong and brave, fighting for her country to regain order in the evil chaos taking over England. The same woman who had come back from the dead, who had punched Gisborne at her wedding and run away to him, Robin, her jubilant smile infectious. The same Marian that had dashed from her father's home early this morning to make sure that he was alright.

And he knows he must tell her.

'I was back in the Holy Land. Watching innocent men die. The blood, Marian…Then the Sheriff caught me and made me watch Gisborne kill the gang. Every one of them, without mercy. And there was nothing I could do.' He shakes his head, tears stinging in the backs of his eyes from the mere memory. 'I could only watch.'

Marian's eyes are dark with worry, but she waits for him to go on.

'And then I was at your home, and you were…' he twitches his lip in an attempt to smile '…you were so cruel, Marian.' He looks at her, his eyes hurt. 'You told me that although you had loved me once, you despised what I have become. You wouldn't forgive me for going away, away to the Holy Land. You were marrying Gisborne, and nothing I could say would change your mind. And…'

She quiets him, and leans in closer so he can feel her breath on his cheek. Being here, near her, makes him calm.

'Robin, look at me.' He turns his face to look into her blue eyes. 'Gisborne is a traitor. You should have no fear of me marrying him now, after everything. I ran away from that wedding with no intention of ever going back. I ran to you, the man I have always loved. I did hate you once, because it was easier then than submitting to the grief that came with your going away. But the man that returned from war I loved more than ever. He was helping this country return to its former glory. I admire what you have done, Robin. What you have helped your men to achieve. You are a good man.' She squeezes his hand, and smiles. 'I love you, Robin. Don't doubt that. I love your bravery, your good intentions, your smile, your sheer pigheadedness -' Robin's smile is bigger this time '- everything about you, Robin. I love you. Don't ever doubt that.'

His smile is genuine; it reaches his eyes. Marian watches him with careful eyes as he pulls himself up into a sitting position, bringing her a little closer. He lifts her chin with his calloused hand and she smiles as he kisses her gently, so tenderly she feels they could both break. He pulls away and rests his forehead on hers.

'Thank you,' he says sincerely.

'Will you be alright?' she asks. She cannot help but feel a twinge of dread at this happening again; Robin lying unresponsive on the forest floor, his face contorted into inexplicable pain.

He chuckles. 'I will now you're here.' She touches his cheek, the rough stubble, to make sure that he is here again, her Robin, and he reciprocates the movement. 'I love you, Marian.'

He plants another kiss to her temple, and draws her in for a hug, wrapping his arms around her tight. He feels her arms encircle him, her breath warm in the crook of his neck, and he knows he is safe.


End file.
